v.l 



TO 



M Y WIFE. 



On a mist-hidden ridge of the mountmn, 



WJtere the chamois and tur live alone, 

 Lies a hunter who vsatclies the fountain, 



And the stars watch that hunter, mine own! 

 There's just room for his rifle beside him. 



Just room for his guide at his feet ; 

 Some two dozen inches divide him. 



From death and eternity, sweet ! 

 The mountain with grey hoary fingers 



Points up to the heaven above: 

 He kneels to /lis God first — ttten lingers. 



Arid vdstfxdly dreams of his love. 

 Tlie torrent that rages beneath him 



Just makes itself heard in a moan. 

 While the thunder-douds stooping enwreath him 



And curtain his pillow of stone. 

 The lightning that gleams on his face, girl. 



Finds a smile born of thinking of thee ; 

 A nd the storm wind that swept o'er the place, girl. 



Took a love message over the sea. : 

 For soft grows tlie pillow of stone, dear, 



All the mountain uith beauty is rife. 

 There is nothing for him to bemoan, d^ar, 

 TfTiO can trust in his God and his wife. 



C. P.-W. 



1301195 



